The Independence of Ivarstead
by FrAz316
Summary: Below the Throat of the World, Ivarstead grumbles. The Civil War has brought the flair of revolution to the otherwise sleepy town. How long before the peace that was for so long kept is lost, and a War of its own erupts in the Region. Rated T for violence, may be M in future
1. The Meditator

**Ivarstead Independence**

Snow chilled and griped his body, but Barknar was showing no indication of giving in to his grievances. The constant watcher, he sat, cross-legged, below the Grey Heavens themselves in meditation. If he focused intently enough, he could hear the quiet chanting of the Greybeards from their sky kingdom; rhythmic chanting in the Dragon language he could not understand. It was peaceful up here, far away from the strife and troubles that plagued Skyrim; Imperial and Stormcloak caught in an endless sparring contest. Blue and Red, each spilling their life force on this ancient soil. He had to scoop a handful of snow into his hand, and examine it finely. So innocent and pure this high up. There were seldom a place that could call itself that any more.

Below him, well in his view, nestled into the Seven Thousand Steps, was the holdfast of Ivarstead. A small town, merely just more than a village with its thatched houses by the handful and its Inn and farmstead comprising it almost fully, it was strategically part of the Rift by law. It was disputed, by of all people the Balgruuf the Greater himself, that it fell into Whiterun's land. The small populous that called Ivarstead their home, for all that it counted for, would consider themselves fairly independent; they never trifled in the affairs of the rest of the Rift and governed their own land, but this meant very little in the grand scheme of things. Ivarstead was minuscule, and if nothing else just another cog in the Skyrim wheel that was being jousted over.

This all flowed though Barknar's mind as he concentrated. The geo-political state of affairs meant very little to him; he was only affiliated, he felt, to Ivarstead itself and the Greybeards in terms of reverence. He did enjoy to meditate over such matters, though, as it focused his moral decision making. As the soothing echoes of Dragontongue bathed his still studies, Ivarstead rumbled and muttered below. Lights flickered in the Wide-Arm manor; the largest and most grand of all the homesteads in the holdfast, in the Vilemyr Inn, and too in the houses that dotted the view like buzzing, glowing flies. The mill also showed faint signs of life; dying embers of a days work as Temba Wide-Arm and her husband Lygor retired for the day. Mid-evening sunshine paid its last respects to Skyrim before settling down behind the Eastern mountains.

Barknar knew it was time to return, there was no sense in staying out any later. As cold as the North was in the day, its evenings were far more perilous. As Nordic as he was, even he did not want to risk succumbing to the Chill.

Now standing over the near-sleeping shadow of Ivarstead, eclipsed in the nightfall, Barknar stopped to hear, for the last time that day, the chanting of the Greybeards.

_"Strun...Strun...Strun"_


	2. The Horn of the South Outpost Calls

**2. Brelir - The Horn of the South Outpost Calls**

'By the Nine, why is this damned 'fast so sleepy!'

'It is a weary town, guard-kin, but a job none the less. Count yourself lucky; you could be fighting the Stormcloaks – or Imperials if you are of the persuasion.'

'True friend, very true. Politics be damned and all.'

An early morning shift was seen amongst the various Hold's guards as something of a sin. An unholy rise at 'Gods-only-know-what' hour, the nightly freshness still creeped in the shade, which was a permanent feature of the entire city until the sun could be bothered enough to raise itself above The Throat. Until then, Ivarstead, indeed the entire Rift, was cast in an unnatural cowl of cold darkness.

Torches still lit, and indeed providing their only heat and light, the morning guards rubbed their hands together, shared tales through chattering teeth, and kept their swords sheathed. It was not as though they weren't expecting any trouble. This south of Riften, crime was still a major issue. Bandit raiding parties, thinking Ivarstead to be a defenceless shanty town, would make occasional raids. Mostly ill-prepared and malnourished from living in the snowy hills surrounding, they were driven by desperation moreso than vicious desire. They would never pass the front arch of Ivarstead, the guards would make sure of it.

All had been well the fore-night. Only the occasional howl of wolves in the distance kept them on alert. It had been especially cold; Barknar the Meditative had told them so once he had descended from the Steps. He was a clever man, the guards thought, but mysterious in his ways. He was sure to be an ally of the Greybeards; they allowed him safety in his meditating, and kept any stray snow trolls away if need be. Or so the stories went anyway. He was pleasant however, and a keen archer to boot; far superior to even the most trained soldiers of the Rift. It was best to stay in his favour for that reason alone.

'Brelir, Sner, how goes the shift?'

Morn came soon after this, and it was time to change the guards at each post. There were no grand ceremonies here, that was solely reserved for the High Guard of Solitude. Sauntering to and from your post when the fresh eyes, ears and legs came was more than acceptable. As the sun peaked over the mountains around, they were just glad to get this shift over and done with. A large pint of mead, a meal of bread and meat and a warm bed would do the world of good to cast off the night's frost that settled as a skin on their firm leather.

'Cold as a Nordess' heart, Nirl' one laughed. 'How goes you?' Brelir, the taller and leaner guard, pushed himself lazily off of the wooden post he was leaning against and firmly shook the hand of his replacement.

'Rested and quenched friend' Nirl replied 'And yet I know I will be neither soon enough'.

Sner, the second on duty guard who was stockier and wide built, with a beard that poked through the chinstrap of his helm, pulled in the second new guard for an embrace. 'my brother Frer, have the shift freeze your ass to Oblivion in my honour!'

'Thank you, brother, you are too kind' sarcasm riddled, Frer took the embrace with a wry smile that even pierced his steel helmet.

This was the companionship of the guards. Despite the pay being average and the work tedious, you were treated to the warmth of friendship. Each man was your brother, not from blood as it was with Sner and Frer, but through the sword and the banner of your Hold.

'Enjoy the warmth, guard-kin!' Nirl bellowed, slapping his two weary comrades on their backs. 'Rest well, and on our off time we shall drink together like kings!'

Laughing, Brelir and Sner were about to depart to the Inn in hopes of a well deserved feast, until a graven noise called out from the distance. Low and mournful, the warning horn of the Southern Outpost called out to every available guard in the holdfast, drunken or tired, bedding a wench or scoffing their face, to take up arms and defend the Rift.

'The Post Horn calls...MEN, AT ARMS!' roared Brelir, unsheathing his sword. Tiredness had left him; he was now peppered with gallantry. When a Horn calls, he would answer with sword and shield.

The southern valley winded and dipped, raising into peaks as well as troughs of frosty yet lush greenery. The particular brow that was visible to the guards at the simple wooden entrance arch was where every set of eyes was scanning. More guards joined them now; at least nine or ten had left the Inn or the barracks, armour fastened hastily in their haste. From his house that lay beside the Grey river; resting above the Wide-Arm's mill on the hill, the Captain of the Guard had risen from his slumber to seek the reason for the call to arms.

Captain Slaic Hemjir of The Rift Guard took the job he had been bestowed with the utmost seriousness. A native of Ivarstead from birth, this sleepy hollow found it hard to contain his burning, loyal spirit. The son of Kravkar Hemjir, weapon smith to The Rift's Jarls as his each generation of the Hemjir house had been for centuries. It was said that when Friar Loftruund laid the foundations for The Rift as first Jarl, it was Harund Hemjir who crafted the hammers and axes. One of four sons, the second oldest in his own right, Slaic was competent at a forge, but no master as his father and brothers were. His heart was not in it as his kin's were, it would seem

This was no slant on his work ethic, as the Captain worked incredibly hard to please his perfectionist father; even though he had realised long ago his second son would trade creating the sword for swinging it. Slaic would train with the swords his father smithed, testing every blade for weight, sharpness and ornament. Self-taught in bladesmanship, he outshone the few children of Ivarstead, those that dared pick up a weapon. Unless you were bound to a family trade, you would no doubt be compelled to join the Hold's guards, or enlist in the Rangers of the Snow. Anything was better than fading away in the sleepy hollow at a young age. Slaic called himself to serve the High King in the wilds; travelling north to south, east to west, Hold to Hold, as a horseman; bound in steel chainmail and steadfast leather to armour them, and the dark cloak emblazoned with the silver stag of the Ranger to warm their travels.

War had kept him kindly in check; bandits and raiders were aplenty and they always paid good coin in their slaughter. It meant long nights in the cold, paltry supplies outside of Holds, and the constant suspicion of every passing merchant or traveller. There had been too many occasions to count that they were ambushed. There had been no invasion in Skyrim for centuries, possibly never at all depending on who you spoke to. Most of the trouble came internally; those who yearned for power brainless enough to take it by force. Unconditionally, the Rangers were sworn to the King and Queen. Dissenters were made an example of; flogged and beaten by your brothers before being hog-tied to the fastest mount available and dragged from East to West. Brutal and honest, there was an honour in dying for the protection of the realm; but none in dying for your own selfish cause of self-reverence and glory.

Years of service had made Slaic a hero; he needed not pay for any Inn or Tavern in the entire realm. Yet the famous life that had been thrust upon him was not suited for his Nordic sensibilities. Naturally reclusive, after his service to the Rangers was done, he retired to his homestead in The Rift, taking up the position as Captain of the Guard of Ivarstead at the behest of Lord Phillean Wide-Arm. It had been two years hence, and he liked the quiet life of the soporific holdfast. It was in instances like the call of the Horn, however, that made him realise that the struggles of the states within Skyrim that he had once rode to protect were just as grave as the trials he faced in service to the Rangers. He was free to admit this; he was after all a man of character and honesty that only the Rangers of the Snow can hone.

'What reason for the call of the Horn, Brelir?' the Captain asked. He knew every guard, as there were not masses, by name. Even under their helms.

'No word yet sir.' the guard replied, eyes still darting the horizon to the south. 'There should be a runner soon, if not we have grave cause for concern.'

Slaic sighed and rubbed his eyes with the leather hands; he had prepared his steed and himself for mounted combat if it was shown to be bandits that roused the South Horn. Patience was not a strong suit of the Captain, Brelir knew this well. He was perfectly willing to see out a plan; as long as it was of his creation. Cunning was what kept Slaic alive in the Rangers, but action against the various evils of Skyrim needed a swift hand, or sword as it was.

They waited for what could have only been a couple more minutes in silence. All were focused on the South crest, waiting hopefully for the damned runner to scurry his way over the brow and relay what madness was about to occur. The runners of the Rift were the quickest in the land, young things trained by Loc Wind-Foot of Riften for speed and endurance. It was rumoured by the knaves and guards that the Thieves Guild played some part in their training as a means to turn the eye of the law to one side. Loc would deny his part in this wholeheartedly, but then again any man of sense would do the same. The Thieves Guild were to the Rift what the Stormcloaks were to the Empire; a threat.

'DO NOT FIRE; RUNNER, RUNNER!'

The crest lit up with a flash of movement. Over it came a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, clad in flowing cloth that would not way even the youngest of babes. Red faced, having assuredly ran the entire stretch at sprint non-stop, he collapsed into a stagger as he reached the wooden arch way. He was one of Yor Half-Finger's spawn; he could tell by the sweeping blonde hair and boyish good looks. As he slowed to a definite stop, all was silent bar his heavy breathing, waiting for his tale of what the situation was; save the dull clunk of the Wide-Arm's farmhands chopping at wood behind them.

'Come on boy!' one of the guards, a large, hulking brute of a man, chimed low, impatient and irksome from being awoken. 'One of your youth should be running these hills all day and give off no sweat!'

'Do not hurry the lad, Judd.' Slaic ordered, turning to the runner with as reassuring smile as any Ranger could produce. 'What has happened in the South?'

'Mounted...horses...guards from...Riften...Sar Elkwihn_'

No sooner had the name escaped the boy's panting lips; the South crest was once more alive with movement. Well, first it was alive with noise; the firm galloping of strong hooves pounding at the dirt path. Neighing and panting filled the valley, even causing the Wide-Arms to stop with their cutting in surprise. These were no rebel stock; such powerful noises could only be made by well trained and groomed horses from one of the various Holds. Slaic knew this, and he knew the name the boy had given them; everyone in Ivarstead, indeed the Rift and Skyrim as a whole, knew the name.

'Ease off men' Slaic called, motioning for all swords that were unsheathed to be put away. 'The Bringer of Peace approaches.'


	3. The Bringer of Peace

**3. Slaic – The Bringer of Peace**

Ivarstead's Captain of the Guard watched with the men in his charge, equally confounded, as the riding party of twelve strong reached their land at vicious pace. Flanked by the Highguard, High King and Queen's personal body of soldiers trained to the highest degree in order to ensure their protection, Sar Elkwihn Muire, Principal Knight of the Highguard, rode into the holdfast, only breaking stride when they were within fifty yards of the slender wooden arch. The Bringer of Peace adorned a gleaming white-steel armour, the Wolf Queen of Haafingar growling across his chest. His guards were similarly marked, except wearing regular steel from head to toe. A solitary female in the party wore fine silk robes, red and black of Solitude. Slaic could not tell what other creeds the men of the Highguard were, but he knew for certain the robed figure was Breton.

'Halt!' the Peace Bringer bellowed, a deafening, commanding voice that cracked like the Dragon _thu'um_. At once they halted, horses in splits of seconds breaking from full gallop, to a canter, to a trot, and finally to a complete stop. Formed perfectly in a 'V' shape, a legged falcon that swooped the countryside, the Highguard had come to Ivarstead with purpose.

'Praise be, Sar Elkwihn!' Slaic called, opening his arms in greeting as the Principal dismounted his steed. 'Has your travels been swift, Ranger-kin?'

'The mountain air in the south does us well, Captain Hemjir.' removing his helm, Sar Elkwihn swept out well kept, brown hair that was tucked into his chestplate. 'How be your father, and brothers to? Is the steel strong this spring?' he accepted the embrace from Slaic, which broke off into a firm handshake soon after.

'Well my liege. The forges of Hemjir run thick and strong. May I interest you in a blade, to commemorate such a visit from the Highguard? Our hospitality is yours to use, friend.'

Smiling, Sar Elkwihn rested a hand on the shoulder of the Captain. 'We would be honoured to accept your kindness, Slaic.' he turned his himself to the Highguard, still mounted: 'Dis-mount! Vyella, with me.'

In a unison unparalleled by any organised group, the knights swung right leg over the body of the horse, landing one communal thud of steel boots meeting hard dirt. Their skill on mount was impeccable; even the Rangers, that which Slaic and indeed Sar Elkwihn in his past were members of, could only marvel at their timing and skill. The women made no movement until the Highguard were busy tying rope to the horses in preparation to lead them to a stable. Equally as deftly, she swung high off of the horse and landed as if a patterning of stones had been dropped. Tying rope to her horse's muzzle-strap, she handed it to one of the knights, took a backpack from her own mount and one from the Principal's steed, and made her way over to him.

Slaic motioned to the giant guard. 'Judd, escort these men to the stables. Tell Temba that the Highguard have paid us a visit, though I am certain she will already be aware.' as he grunted in acceptance, the large man jerked his meaty neck and head to the Highguard, who followed him through the holdfast to the mill. Soldiers of the Queen or not, Judd was an intimidating figure who would seldom accept anyone exerting superiority over him. He was loyal to Slaic, for he was his Captain, and the Wide-Arm family due to their positions. Outside of these, however, he was very much his own man. Content that the knights were taken care of, Slaic motioned to Sar Elkwihn with a sweeping bow:

'We should have a seat and a well-earned rest for yourself, my lord. The Inn provides the finest mead, and we can arrange a bed for you if need be.'

'Thank you, Captain' Sar Elkwihn, polite in his tone, rebuffed. 'However I would very much like to speak to Lord Wide-Arm as urgently as possible.' A flash of concern move across Slaic's well-worn face. 'Do not worry, it is nothing grace. Please do not see me as an omen' he smiled. 'I would most appreciate your attendance.'

'As you wish, Sar Elkwihn.' Slaic bowed once again. He was now worried; far more than he would have been than if it had been mere bandits that had turned up. You could kill raiders and tribal menace; they were poor on both horse and on foot. Sub par weapon skills merely based on strength was never enough against any trained swordsman. Yet with the arrival of the Highguard and Sar Elkwihn, there was every sense of dread to be had. They were the Queen's royal protection; the highest military honour in the whole of the land was being able to ensure the safety of the royalty at risk of your own life. Slaic knew not what Sar Elkwihn's intentions were in Ivarstead, but his heavily armoured, indeed impressive, band told him he was willing to take whatever he wanted, if need be, by force.

'This way, Principal, Lord Wide-Arm should be expecting our arrival now that the city has been awakened.' Slaic laughed, concealing what bitterness could be taken from his words. 'Back to your positions guards!' he ordered those who were still hanging about the South arch. This had gone on long enough, there was no need for anyone to stand about. Even with the lofty arrival, it did not mean Ivarstead had to grind to a halt.

'Thank you, Captain.' The kind demeanour that Sar Elkwihn had adopted was becoming even more chilling. 'Vyella, join us at the Lord's house. Come now, and bring our riding sacks.'

Whatever Sar Elkwihn had in mind, Slaic would have to be very careful how he spoke, for or against, the Bringer of Peace. He just hoped Phillean was of the same mindset.**  
**


	4. Duty to the Queen and the Realm

**4. The Duty**

The Wide-Arm manor, for what it was worth, was the most prestigious and noble family in Ivarstead. Their was vast to the town, a small mountain that overlooked the holdfast, placed above the cairn crypt and ten times its height. Comparatively, this sounded nothing to the greater houses of Battle-Born and Grey-Mane in Whiterun, or the Eagle-Eye and Haafingar of Solitude. None the less, the Wide-Arms had a large say in The Rift's political affairs. Their living patriarch, Lord Phillean, was the former counsel of the High King Istlod, and too his recently deceased son Torygg until age and a longing for The Rift brought him back to Ivarstead. Having served two kings, Phillean was highly regarded as the most noble and true of Skyrim's officials; coming from a long line of serving men and woman of the royalty. As the oldest son, Lord Wide-Arm was heir to the land of his father Rengar, while his brothers Sar Strewn and Sar Rennis served the name as High Knights to the realm.

Five children were bore from his marriage to Patina Wrenshield, maiden Nord of Solitude from a family that had sworn to the royal house of Haafingar. Three grew to be Knights of the Empire; Sar Borrim, Sar Nichael and Sar Ellik rode under the banner of the High King and the Emperor. They lived far south, rebuilding their lands after the disgracing of Cyrodiil to the Altemeri Dominion. Beaten but too proud to surrender fully, the Wide Arm banner were never stripped from their keeps despite raid after raid. The daughter, Temba, had settled in Ivarstead to wed the merchant farmer Lygor Strek, a Lord by all accounts but those official. They ran the mill and stables here, chopped wood with their handmen and sons, Tuck and Moote; living and profiting off of the land that they reaped and sowed.

Then finally, there was the youngest son. Trygian. The rumour of the Hold held with apparent 'great faith', that he was the ill-son of the Wide-Arm house. Not a bastard, but any means, but the runt of the litter that wanted no part of the sword and shield. Even his lord father for all his political ways had taken up the sword for Istlod, but Trygian felt no part of this life. He immersed himself in books; of magic, history, the arts, and never showed any interests in joining his brothers in the South. Word was that he was a disgrace to his father, but you would never hear him admit it. Truth be told, in public at least, Phillean was probably just happy at least one of his sons was not riding on mount into their deaths on a regular basis. There were few seats of power for cowards, but many for those of sense.

Of course Slaic could appreciate this; he had done the same. Retired to Ivarstead with his wife and children. Granted he was only thirty eight, to four children himself. In wedding and bedding his wife Lyara, he had seeded into the world: Stirrat, fifteen almost sixteen, a strong boy like his father who, like him, minded the sword more than the forge; Lucille, aged thirteen, a girl with her mother's sensibilities and looks (thankfully), and her father's determination; Agrar, aged twelve, who could craft a dagger by the time he was eight with his grandfather and uncles; and the young Loki, a babe of six that innocence of the world would flow through. He loved all of his children dearly, and would never want them to send themselves off willingly to die against some unknown enemy. Their father had done enough to compensate for them. Yet he knew they would fly; Stirrat especially. He was so similar to Slaic in his intentions. Once a warrior in the mind, always a warrior of intent.

As Slaic and Sar Elkwihn approached the mountain stone and dense wood home, the Captain took in the sights of the Wide-Arm household as much as the Knight seemed to be doing. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, the morn bringing with it the housecarls cooking breakfast for servant and lord alike. The Wide-Arm family only employed a modest number of hands; enough to see their means tended to, but not leaving them solely dependent on others. 'I do not need a housecarl to wipe my arse for me.' the Lord's brother Sar Strewn bullishly had said.

The masonry of the dwelling was sublime, crafted from Nordic workers from the town itself a thousand years ago, planned by those from Cyrodiil as a means of being a small fort in a town that it could dwarf in comparison. It did have to keep seven Wide-Arm kin, plus their servants and housecarls, and had spare rooms constantly at the ready for the Lord's brothers and family if they paid visits. The Grey Keep, it was named, stone crafted from the cold climate, rivets and steel forged by a Hemjir. It made Slaic appreciate how old his family name was, and a quiet swelling of pride unfurled within him. He was no smithcrafter though, and he had probably betrayed the family's purpose by joining the Rangers. That was his brother's art, and his father's, and his brother's, and their father's, and so on. The black sheep, he was destined to use the blades, travelling far and wide with the Snow to meet Hemjir steel with other steel. And when the victor flew the flag of the silver Iron furnace and hammer, they would ask where his weaponry came from. Slaic gave back to his family in that respect. He had been a walking advert for Hemjir steel; but now he was a Captain, leading a superior man to the house of his Lord, his hardened leather and chainmail grubby in comparison to the impressive armour Sar Elkwihn used. Never before had he felt so inferior.

The wide, hardwood door of the Keep was as strong as the will of the Wide-Arms, fashioned as such to show their trait of hard-hitting melee fighters. The muscle clad arm was etched in Hemjir steel on the doors, splitting down the middle when company was invited in. Like the bonds of the Wide-Arms, they always joined back together in a show of unity and strength. Sar Elkwihn, Vyella in tow with his possessions, and he reached the symbolic door and took a few seconds to compose themselves. Or, Sar Elkwihn did. He was used to esteemed company, however after a long hard ride from the South, even the greatest of warriors looked bedraggled.

Slaic went to the large, iron knocker and hit it three times off of the wooden door. Hardwood showed little signs of degradation; even after a millennium. No bandit, no enemy, no rogue knight with an army seeking to take Skyrim's south had ever passed the Grey Keep. As little as Ivarstead was, it was a strategic masterpiece; controlling the valley below those that serve the _thu'um_. There was a silence after the knocks had rung out, then the patter of movement on the stone floors of the Keep. A pair of eyes appeared from a viewing slot that slid open; eyes that lit up when the person realised what company was at the door. Frantic unclasping and unbuckling of the door's many bolts followed, and the doors of the Keep were finally opened for Sar Elkwihn, the Peace Bringer.

'Captain Slaic,' one of Lord Phillean's servants, a boy no more than sixteen; the same age as Teryll, answered the door. '...and my Gods...Sar Elkwihn...good morning my liege...' The boy trailed off clumsily, and scrabbled to open the doors wider in order to allow them in.

The interior of The Grey Keep was a mixture of cold, mountain stone and various homely decorations of the realm; Phillean had travelled far, and has procured various gifts and the such. Thick purple and black carpets stretched through the middle of the entrance hall, itself holding the central stairwell and various outlying rooms. A few servants busied themselves, carrying and cleaning. Warmth flooded over Slaic's skin, chapped as much as the leather he wore from hard use. It was pleasant in here, and yet Sar Elkwihn viewed everything with lofty suspicion. These people were below him, below most of the castes of society in actual fact. Until they had proven their loyalty, or bought their freedom to become peasants, the servants worked in the grand houses of Lords and Ladies with sullen earnest. Sadness in slavery, hope in freedom.

'I was not expecting visitor this early, save for the bandits I supposed after the South Horn. How foolish of me, I should have expected the Peace Bringer first.'

From the busy clanking of dishes and servant footsteps that came from their eating hall, the Lord Phillean Wide-Arm made his entrance. The Nine had given him the right to age well; a man of over sixty that looked as if fifteen years had been shed like a snake was uncommon even with magic. Slender, carrying himself well, he limped towards his guests with a wooden cane propping up his progress. He had always walked with a lame movement, the result of a sword blow in his days serving the king in armour rather than with his words. History tells us that, even though injured, the Lord rendered the attacker, one of the wild tribesmen that outranked the bandits in ferocity, into the state of holding his head in his hands with one clean swipe. He had traded the steel plates for fine silks and cloth now, though.

'My Lord.' The Captain of the Guard bowed to one knee, as was custom.

'Rise, Slaic my friend, you know how I feel about the formalities of Lordship. Tiresome things; why can't a man just greet another man as his equal, as opposed to this game of rungs on the ladder.' Lord Phillean turned to the Principal Knight, as Slaic got to his feet, slightly embarrassed. 'How goes, Sar Elkwihn? And you, my lady, are...?'

'Vyella.' she finished for him, curtseying. 'I am the Principal Knight's housecarl.'

'I do not envy your job, my lady.' Phillean jested. 'You protect the man that protects the lady Queen, surely you have the greatest burden of all.'

The housecarl smiled meekly, saying nothing. Sar Elkwihn stood in front of her, not allowing her to even if she were to. 'My Lord, it is so nice to see you again. How have you been these past few months since your last visit to Solitude?'

'Old, as ever, Lupin. I dare say I have had a far less stressful time than you have.'

The knight looked away, sheepish: 'Well, yes. It has been a tiresome couple of months...but nothing that has not been done before. We serve to protect the Queen and her lands. I am sworn by my loyalty and the oaths of the Highguard.'

'I know all about oaths, Sar Elkwihn. So did our late King.'

If there had been anger in Sar Elkwihn's face, it only showed for a fraction of a second. He was a proud knight, and did not like his abilities being questioned; even in this veiled conversation of politics. 'Perhaps' the knight suggested, changing the subject, 'that we retire to a private room to finish this discussion.' He was aware of the gathering crowd of servants that were drawn to the conversation of two men so greatly regarded.

Phillean merely smiled. 'I agree. You heard the honourable knight' he motioned with his free hand to his servants for them to be gone. 'Scatter to your duties; these words will not provide enough gossip for your tastes.' Sullenly, the servants dispersed, leaving only two extra people than there should have been: Lady Wide-Arm; a slim, drawn women with an aggressively combed bun for hair and a dress far too wide at the flowing ends for her slim figure, dwarfing her body like a rotund belly; and Trygian, who true to the rumours was scarcely as slender as his mother, with short black hair as his father's, now grey and receding, had once been.

'Patina, would you be so kind as to bring some food for our guests; they shall break their fast with me.' He turned to his youngest son. 'Trygian my boy, what are you busying yourself with today?'

'Medicinals, father, with possibly some knife and bow work later.' His voice matched his figure; well mannered and well meaning.

'Excellent, enjoy lad.' his father said warmly, before passing him and leading Slaic and Sar Elkwihn up the stairs, to the second flight, to the left and at the end of the hall, to his own private study. As Slaic passed, he nodded and smiled at the boy; he was a good youth, useful with herbs and healing. Once, Agrar had split a gash open on his arm when playing near the rocks at the river. Falling for a boy of twelve was usually nothing, but the cut was deep and his dear wife, Agrar's worried mother, feared it may turn septic. For sure luck, Trygian had been passing on his way back from visiting his aunt and uncle at the mill, and in a flash was about the boy, requesting several herbs and boiling water. He treated the cut with Dragon's Tongue, then healed it with magic. The green, warming glow of the mysterious energy brought the wound to a close; only a faint scar to remind the boy to mind where he steps.

The trio of men entered the study, Vyella being ordered to wait outside the door to ensure no one disturbed them save from Lady Wide-Arm with the food. Sar Elkwihn had been pleasant, even friendly up until now, but as soon as the door of Phillean's cosy yet well furnished study closed his face dropped like lead weights.

'What by the _Gods_ do you call that display downstairs?!' he seethed.

'The truth, knight. You would be good as to learn to use it.' Phillean sat at his desk, completely relaxed. Slaic opted to stand beside his desk.

'Do not badger me about notions of truth, Lord Wide-Arm. Queen Elsif the Fair mourns for the loss of her fair King, and you make displays such as that?! It would make a man question your loyalty...'

'Come off it, you fool.' the Lord was not going to back down in his own home. 'I knew from the moment that we saw you at our door that you were here to speak to me about the good King's death. Doing rounds, I believe. Sar Brendenn has reported from Riften that you had came to their fair city to speak to the Jarl. You come bearing news we are already aware of.'

Slaic could feel Sar Elkwihn tensing with rage. He was a Lupin, an old wolf house of Solitude. The rage of the moon lived within him somewhere. It was not like Phillean to choose his words so poorly.

'You should consider investing in new whisperers, my Lord.' the knight spat. 'For that is not why I am here at all. I know you are aware of the troubles that are awash in Skyrim. The throne is not your duty, leave that up to me and the Highguard.'

'Who have done a wonderful job so far, I believe.' Phillean was wry.

Ignoring this jab, Sar Elkwihn continued: 'I am here, in the name of our noble Lady the Queen Elsif, to rally more men to fight for her in the name of Skyrim in the war.'

'What war?' Slaic had been silent through this, not wanting to intervene. Politics had been a suit he wanted to shed in his life as Captain of the Guard. He just wanted to protect his home. 'Between the Empire and the Stormcloaks? That is not a war we need a part in.'

'No, Slaic, not that damned excuse for a war. That is Tullius' job, not mine. If the old bastard can't even keep rule over a handful of rowdy rebels supporting a would-be King, then what use is he.' he paused, taking breath and composing, then exhaled deeply. 'No, I am not here for that. Lady Elsif fears that the Aldmeri Dominion will mount an attack from the south. The sea from the North is far too treacherous for them to cross, but the mountains to the south can be traversed. If Cyrodiil can fall to the Aldmer, then Skyrim is under threat as well. We are losing men as it is to these damned Dragons left right and centre.'

'What of the Rangers?' Slaic half offered a solution, half asked.

'They have been pressed as it is. They haven't been equipped to fend off those flying wretches for eons. They have already claimed Sar Myrtoc and Sar Opri, as well as many other good men. The only reason the Highguard ride from hold to hold is because the Rangers are busy maintaining the wilds. Would you really want Wadlek Meatjaw discussing this with you? I tend to think I am more...civil...'

Slaic knew Wadlek Meatjaw well. A ferocious figure, the man known as the Maw of the Wild was very seldom prostrated himself to words. Stories told of pillaging and brutalising of the wildmen at his hands; a strong, fearless military commander who was perfect for the purpose of the Snow, but not its ideals. He had honour, but only in the death of his enemies. Privately, Slaic didn't think he was a true Ranger at heart, and no better than the strays he killed.

'State your intention, Sar Elkwihn, and be done with it.' Phillean bluntly ordered.

'We need your men and woman, Lord Wide-Arm, and we need them now. You have many strong men in Ivarstead, many of whom are competent with a blade. As many as you can spare, but remember this is the Queen you are donating them to. Pick with care on who is fit to serve her.'

'We will give you none of our able bodies, Knight Lupin.' was the Lord's simple answer.

Sar Elkwihn looked aghast, as though it never occurred to him that the Lord could refuse. 'What are you saying? How dare you defy the Queen!' he hammered his fist on the desk. 'Look at the men you have! Your guards, how many are they? You are a small holdfast; you do not need many men to guard this place!'

'We have as many men as we need, Sar Elkwihn.' It was Slaic who spoke. He was not willing to have those under his command stolen away from him. They needed every guard they could muster. Between keeping the fast itself and the two outposts in the north and south; Slaic was pressed for men as it was. He did not need to lose any more, especially not to be whisked away to a war they knew nothing about. 'We are pushed to defend ourselves from the bandits and wildmen, since the Snow has not safeguarded these lands for next to a year.' bitterness riddled the Captain's voice.

'Then give me the men, those trained or young enough to fight.' Sar Elkwihn's eyes shot at Phillean, letting him taste the veiled insult. 'What of the Strek boys? They must be of fighting age, or _your _son, Captain Hemjir? Your oldest, he must be fit to fight for his Queen. If he is anything like you he will jump at the chance to fight.'

Slaic's blood boiled. 'My son is not taking part in your war games, Sar Elkwihn. He is but fifteen years; a boy. He is not ready to become a soldier.'

'I believe that was the age that _you_ left at, Slaic.' the knight pressed, a crooked smile twitching on his godly, sour face. Slaic remained silent, a silent concession that he was correct.

'My grandchildren are not playing part in this, neither is Slaic's boy.' Phillean laid down. 'If anything they will be needed here if the Aldmer do indeed invade. You cannot expect them to be brought north to be trained, then sent back down here. If you are truly desperate, then there would be more sense in keeping the boys here.'

'This is hardly up for debate.' indignant, the Principal Knight went on. 'The Queen demands it. We already rounded up a slew in Riften. The Black-Briars gave one of their own to the cause; that rapscallion Sibbi albeit. He was jailed, and this was his pardon. A warrioress, Mjoll the Lioness, has also pledged. Do you not see? You can achieve glory from this, _they_ will achieve glory for this. The Riften force rides for Nilheim as we speak; they set off as we did to confront the bandit threat in the keep and reclaim it for the realm. A proving of honour, if you will._'_

'You sent a force to Nilheim and did not consult us?!' Phillean stood up, faster than he should have with his leg but he let no pain show on his face. 'That structure holds more bandits than you are aware of. Do you not think that we have not _tried_ to root that place out? It only remains under the bandits' control because we have never been given enough men and women to clear the bloody thing!'

'Lord Wide-Arm speaks true.' Slaic agreed. 'They will be walking into a death trap. Telrav the Cunning resides as its master. Your recruits will find no easy fight there. It will be a blood bath.'

'Then all the more reason to garner some recruits from here, isn't it?' Sar Elkwihn again crookedly slanted his mouth into a grin of victory. 'You round up some of your men here and ride to support your Rift comrades.'

'Would it not be sensible of the Highguard, being the most noble and dedicated in the land, lead the charge?' Phillean offered drily.

'The Highguard are required where they are needed most; at the hand of the Queen and her family. We have tarried too long in this place, there are other holds and holdfasts we intend to visit for recruitment.'

'You cannot just leave us, giving us this ultimatum. Queen or not, _you _have endangered lives in the name of our Lady Elsif. They are your responsibility too.' Slaic insisted.

Sar Elkwihn thought, for a good couple of seconds. They had bested him in this respect; it was his responsibility to make sure these people got to Solitude in one piece. Maybe he had tried to solve two problems in too quick a succession. He would not let them know this, however. A Lupin never accepted defeat, be damned if they didn't. '...I can spare one of my knights...Sar Roe Dlirk, a good lad, calm in a crisis.'

'You have ten at your guard, and you give us but one?' Slaic was the one who was livid now. 'What good is one_'

'One shall suffice.' It was Phillean who cut across him, not Sar Elkwihn. As Slaic look at the Lord in confusion, he continued: 'We shall squadron of _willing_' he stressed this intentionally 'men and women to support the Riften party. Who commands them, Sar Elkwihn?'

'One Quero Winch, a petite, fragile looking bastardess who for some reason no one dared oppose as their leader.' Sar Elkwihn explained. 'No thranes or nobles stood forward.'

'I see.' the Lord brooded for a time, letting the silence rule in his place until he was content with what was going to happen. 'Slaic.' he turned to the Captain. 'You will take this Knight of Sar Elkwihn, gather as many men as are willing and lead them to Nilheim. With haste, it may be too late as we speak.'

'Do not worry about time, my Lord.' Sar Elkwihn had his polite hat on once more. 'They will not attack until nightfall. I ordered them to set up camp short south of the keep, and wait until the moon has risen before they launch their assault.'

'Then time is even more of the essence.' Phillean warned, eyes ablaze with the fire of his younger self. 'You cannot expect volunteers to sit and wait. They will be lusting to prove themselves. Captain Hemjir, you must move at once.'__


	5. Gathering of Those Willing

Lady Wide-Arm had just finished preparing a breakfast fit for a king and all of his lords when the three men left the study, Vyella following in tow. Phillean told her as they passed that she should serve it to the servants, the gods be known they needed the feeding. Sourcing out the young boy who acted as the town's crier, with purpose, they left the keep and made their way to the centre of town; beside the Inn. That was where the majority of the men not on duty would be; passing their time in slight to heavy stupor.

'Men, women, children, ages great to small!' the crier called out, lungs full and beaming. 'Lord Phillean Wide-Arm calls a town meeting, now!'

He called this repeatedly, so as it got annoying to the holdfast's residents, drawing them out of their homes and buildings to listen to the Lord's word. Slaic spied Sar Elkwihn subtly rubbing his ears in frustration. Something about that made him smile. He also saw his father, and his brother and their families, coming from the Hemjir forge. The uneasy look on his father's face was ever present when

As the people, Highguard and child alike, finally gathered around Lord Phillean, he began to speak to them in a loud, booming voice: 'People of Ivarstead, heed my word and heed it well! Our Principal Knight of the Highguard, honoured to protect the Lady Queen Elsif the Fair, has requested that we put forward men to aid the Captain Hemjir, and indeed the realm in purging the bandit threat from Nilheim!' he let that sink in; the Highguard looked puzzled, now with their helms off, while the locals were taken aback. 'The honour of fighting for the crown is the highest in the land. Who will stand up, those who are over eighteen years and able of course, to fight?'

There was a collective sigh from some members of the crowd. Slaic noticed his own family standing off to the side. Stirrat looked disappointed, he must have been so excited to get a chance to join in since they were open-offering. This was no game, though. Slaic would not have his oldest son slain by some murderous thug on his first outing. He would train him himself, he thought silently. He would make it up to him that way.

'Knight Dlirk' Sar Elkwihn now spoke to his men, them standing to attention when his mouth uttered but the first sound of a sentence. 'As your duty to the Queen, you shall be first to accompany him. This I order as your duty.'

A parting broke through the Highguard ranks; the first Slaic had seen them out of formation since they came here. Even in them leaving the Inn, they were single file. Standing in the middle, alone, must have been Sar Dlirk. He rivalled Sar Elkwihn in his looks; dark hair to match the Principal's blonde, but with a sallow scar running down the left side of his face, his cheek matted with the crease of a blade.

'I shall see my honour to the Queen through.' Sar Dlirk responded. He moved to the front beside Slaic silently, with his eyes down.

'Who else shall meet the call of the Queen?'

'I shall go.'

All eyes turned to the back of the crowd, and heads craned upwards to register that is was indeed the giant man Judd who offered himself. Standing at over seven feet tall, and built akin to the Grey Keep itself, Judd towered over every man and woman in Skyrim by several heads. His father had been a trader, his mother some tavern wench up in Windhelm. They had travelled south in hopes of leaving the land and starting afresh. Foolish hope; the women birthed him here, in the Inn, in passing, and died. The father, distraught, took a dagger to his throat not soon after. That left Judd, the had at least had the courtesy to name the poor babe, with no more worldly possessions than a bundle of clothes, a few spare septims, and the knife that his father committed suicide with. He was raised by the tavern owner Wilhelm Vilemyr and his wife, Sybil. They had but one son, but he was serving often as a runner across the Rift at the time. Now a thrane of the Jarl Laila the Lawgiver, Sar Huberick considered Judd a brother. That affair was twenty years ago, and by whatever fate, Judd had outgrown any age, or height, or mass, that had been predicted of him. He was the man of manual labour as well as a town guard. You weren't going to trifle with a man of that intimidation, were you?

'Be it so, Judd, son of Amareo, come forward.' he did just so, making their company up to a trio.

'I shall also offer my hand.'

The voice of Trygian Wide-Arm was not one that Slaic had expected to hear. Nor had the crowd. Nor had his father, who stood, stock still and mouth slightly agape.

'Trygian...you offer?' the Lord could stammer out, eventually, into a stunned silence.

'I do.' The boy was nervous yet true in his words. 'I I am to ever learn of the world, I must experience it outside of the books in the library.'

'Excellent!' Sar Elkwihn chimed. 'You shall bring honour to yourself my boy!'

Nodding, Trygian made his way to the centre, standing with the Ranger, the Principal Knight and the Giant. He was the youngest allowed, eighteen years last month; a late addition to the Wide-Arm house in the late bloom of their parent's birthing abilities. The little experience he had had was with a dirk; this was no young man of the blade. His older brothers had taught him the very basics of swordcraft when he was younger and they were on leave, but he was a beginner at best. None the less, Slaic thought, he was a healer, and that may prove invaluable to the attack when there were the unavoidable casualties of this avoidable folly.

After the shock of Trygian's pledge, more volunteers started to stand for themselves. Clearly not wanting to be outdone by a lordling of little training, guard twins Sner and Frer offered themselves. Following them was the fractious Nirl, probably eager to get off of guard duty. One of the Wide-Arm/Strek millhands, Moraine, opted in also. Brelir had hoped to join, but Slaic insisted he needed him here to take charge of the guards. He was the only person the Captain trusted enough to lead what little men they had left.

Barknar was thought to be the final pledger. He had left his mountain meditation to answer Lord Phillean's call. A very astute bowman, Barknar was, along with Sar Dlirk and Slaic himself, the most experienced of the bunch. The twins and Nirl were fine enough guards, but they had dealt with bandits only on occasion. This was an assault; and completely different territory. Trygian and Moraine were as green to combat as the leagues of fields around them, with no combat experience at all. That said, the latter could swing a sword as she would a scythe, which was something. Trygian had a halfblade at his call and nothing more.

As a signature contract was passed around the group, them having to sign themselves in or through paper and a quill that was brought to him by the crier at his request. They were ready to seal things up and begin preparing when a final voice called out that felt so close it could have been from inside Slaic's own head if the intonation hadn't been off.

'I offer myself to this party.' Vyella, the housecarl of Sar Elkwihn, spoke.

The knight only laughed. 'Oh my dear housecarl, do not be so silly.' He put a hand on her shoulder. 'You must return with me, as part of the party we cannot spare any one else.'

'With all due respect my liege' The woman politely spoke, removing the hand from her. 'Sar Roe will need a servant to tend to his armour, clean his weapon, prepare his food. You, being the mighty Principal Knight, would never need such things. It would be best suited if I joined these people to Nilheim.'

It was hard to say whether Sar Elkwihn knew he had been made a fool of, or his pride blinded him from it. As he did not flinch in the slightest, you would like to think he had just take what his housecarl had said at face value. He acted accordingly, nothing betraying the feelings of embarrassment and loathing that could riddle within him.

'I understand, Vyella, and I agree wholeheartedly. Please ensure that Sar Roe is kept in good stead. We wouldn't want any blood on your hands, that wasn't that of the enemies, due to negligence, would we?'

'No, my liege, not on the hands that clean your clothes. Surely not.'

* * * *  
_The list of those that signed for Nilheim; _

_Slaic Hemjir, Captain of the Ivarstead Guard, Ranger of the Snow  
Sar Roelland D__lirk, Highguard of the Realm  
Judd __the Whoreson  
Trygian Wide-Arm  
Sner Bryligh  
Frer Bryligh  
Nirl Wardlof  
Moraine Castor  
Barknar  
Vyella __Seamsewer _


	6. A Farewell

The crowd dispersed shortly after, content that they were not being drafted into warfare. Stirrat hung back, moping around in his father's peripheral vision as they planned and gathered supplies. The town was willing to part with food and water; Hemjir senior and his two sons providing weaponry and armour for anyone who did not already own some. The guards replaced their usual uniforms with thick, rugged leather. It would be blatantly obvious from a mile away that they were part of The Rift if they went with the sign of the hold plastered on their clothing. We were harbouring a Highguard Knight, though, which was a blatant enough sign that we were an organised party. There were a million sellswords, mercenaries and other bandits out there that would do this job for enough septims; but they lacked any loyalty to The Rift in what they did. It would be money that drove them on, and if those at Nilheim could offer them something more; shelter and a semi-organised band to work under for example, they'd only be slaughtering our women, children, guards and animals soon enough.

Stirrat was clearly upset; his father could see why. His blood was clearly in him; he craved the adventure of the realm as he had at that age, and yearned to take any opportunity he could to leave Ivarstead. It was well known Slaic left in his fifteenth year for Falkreath with a band similar to the one he had assembed now; the varying of young and mature, experienced or completely novice, to join the Snow. He had hoped his son would never have to do that; war certainly changed him. It was for his family that he came home, and Stirrat would be mature enough to see what was important in life. He hoped.

'But father, I'm fifteen!' he protested, as Slaic sharpened his sword on the grind at the Hemjir forge. The band had take to there to fix their weaponry; free of charge of course, considering a Hemjir themselves was leading the group. Weaponry was never going to be a problem; but it being used properly was another matter. 'What is stopping me from doing the stuff you did at this age?'

'Me.' the ranger bluntly stated, his eyes unwavering from the grinding sparks of the blade being sharpened. 'And the wrath of your mother.'

'But I can take care of myself! You've taught me everything!'

'Everything is not enough, son. Not at fifteen years, certainly. I know I went off and did that, but I've fought enough for you to live a peaceful life. You don't need to take up the blade to make a man of yourself.' he paused his sharpening to look his son dead in the eyes. 'Look at your grandfather, or your uncles. They have never fought with the swords they have made; none of them. Does that make them any less men than any of these people who have signed that piece of paper?'

Stirrat said nothing for some seconds. '...No.'

'Exactly.' the father continued pedalling the grindstone, letting sparks of metal soar a foot then die on the stone forge floor. 'You are the man of the house while I am gone. Make sure your mother is well, and your brothers and sister, okay?'

'Yes father.' Stirrat sulked. Nothing he could say could change his father's mind. He was no lordling, after all; training was not handed to him in a silver platter with the great swordsmen of the realm coming at his beck and call to teach him weaponplay. His heritage was the right to become a smith to those very same lordlings. Downcast, the boy walked away, past his mother and siblings who had gathered once again near their husband and father. His mother made motion to stop him, but he simply kept walking.

'Stirrat!' his father called to him, just before he was out of earshot. 'Once I return, I shall see that I train you fully. I refuse to send you off into any battle without the proper training of the Snow!'

At these words, the boy's head snapped around so quickly that he almost lost balance. A ridiculous smile of happiness bled from his face, as though asking if there was truth in these words. A simple nod from his father was all he needed. He now bounded off home, intent on getting his sword out and practising all he could against the air around him.

Silently, Lyara watched her boy run off, a solemn happiness escaping her lips like a sigh. She had not seen her husband prepare for war for some years now, but the sight was no less unusual. There would always be something that drew him back out into the wilds; he was as restless as a child and nothing his wife could do could change that. So too was the son, poor Stirrat, that was too adventurous for his own good. Lyara wished she could bless the boy with all the skill that he needed to be safe, but her mother's intuition found it hard to even consider letting any of her beloveds go.

'The boy is just like you, Slaic.' She commented, a pleasant disturbance for the man as he continued to grind his sword.

'God help him then.' The dry humour was one of he better traits.

His wife smiled, leaving the huddle of her children, who ranged from concerned to confused, to wrap her arms around her husband. He continued to sharpen his blade; he was experienced enough to handle two pleasures at once, but a smile crept upon his face. 'Why are you doing this, my love? You have completed your sentence of defending the realm. Can they not leave you be?'

'Daddy was a prisoner?' Agrar asked, in shock.

'No you idiot, it was a metamor...' Lucille angrily shot back, smacking her brother across the ear with a swift backhand. She was just of womanly age, and was irritable at the best of times.

'Ouch!' the boy yelped, cringing inwards to cover himself from more harm. '...it's a _metaphor_, by the way...'

'Shut up Agrar!' Lucille sent a barrage of slaps towards her brother, taking him down to the dirty ground. As they rolled in battle, Slaic and Lyara began to laugh aloud. The pleasures of a family were divine, moreso than combat, Slaic found. Even these childish arguments had their place in keeping him sane. Coming back from the Snow, a life of nothing particularly constant was wrought with frailties in the long run. Slaic had met many a good men in taverns that had let it consume them. Alcohol streaked clothes and laden breath. They would stumble and recall 'the good old days', when their bellies were not so large, and they could bed any woman they desired without having to cough up their own gold. It was all bullshit to him. They could live their lives like that if they chose; it was their money that they had earned after all. These were no Snow Rangers, mind, nor Highguard. Nor was it the mercenary or the sellsword. They could not risk their livelihood to succumb to such folly. That would never come later; they would be dead before their fortieth year. Drinking and whoring were fine, but as long as it was measured with raiding and looting. God forbid they run out of money.

All the while, Loki stood silently. He mourned at what could be, sullenly stock still and staring at his feet. They boy had been far too young to realise where his father was when he had been with the Snow. The long periods he was away were misty memories, faded and obscured to the point he could not make heed of them. It was why, now that there was a certainty in his father leaving for some time, that he took it worse than others. The poor boy did not understand.

It took less than an hour to prepare themselves for the travels ahead. Armoured and packed with food, they were given horses by Temba Wide-Arm, under the strict orders that they were to be returned in perfect health. 

'If they aren't, the bandits won't be the least of your troubles.' she promised us heavily.

Sar Roe and Vyella were spared from Temba's force; Sar Elkwihn had approved, under heavy duress, them taking their own horses. He had grown increasingly quiet since the deciding of the party; standing in the shadows with his Highguard, while the others busied themselves, muttering and laughing at words known only to them. He was a slimy character, Slaic had decided. Principal Knight or not, his self-interest was the most poignant facet of his character; No Breton-like charm or boyish good looks could save him from the Captain's judgement. As the women swooed in his dust, Slaic wouldn't trust him bringing up the rear guard of a riding party.

Gathering at the wooden arch that separated Ivarstead from the rest of the realm, final goodbyes were said. Judd hugged his adopted father, mother, and the barmaid Lynly Star-Sung who had grown to be a sister to him in her few years in the holdfast. The man dwarfed his family, the hugs brought them three feet off the ground and were fierce, but the love he bore them he seldom gave to others.

Trygian shook hands with his father, as firm as a Wide-Arm should. One solitary tear left the Lord's eye; through pride or fear of what was to come for him it could not be told. This was contrasted by the floods shed by Lady Wide-Arm; who hugged and hugged, refusing to let go of her youngest boy, her baby.

'Mother...yes...I shall be fine mother, do not...no please don't cry again...'

Embarrassed, Trygian tried to shake her off as kindly as he could, but it took the strength of his father and a nearby guard to pry him from her vice of affection.

The twins Sner and Frer, of house Bryligh, said goodbye to their only present relative; their great aunt Nanny. Clan Bryligh lived in Bruma, on the Cyrodiil side of the Jerall mountains. Their father, Sar Canter, was a master in the Blades; one of the few that fought valiantly through the War to preserve what little was left of their organisation. His son, the twins' brother, Lear, was also under the order as a Traveller Sar Strewn Wide-Arm, Lord Baron of Bruma and Phillean's next brother, had fought with his next of kin to ensure that the Aldmeri Dominion did not cross the Jerall mountains into their homeland. The sacking of the Cloud Ruler was an unfortunate casualty that had nearly ended the entire effort. If it had not been for the Blades' dedication and Bruma's knowledge of the terrain, all would have been lost. All was improving now; even the archives of the great order itself have been restored as best as possible. The aches of pride and honour are still smelt throughout the ancient halls, however.

'Now you be safe, young'ns!' Nanny pressed, sticking a bony, frail finger into both the boy's chest, one after another that made them wince in succession. 'I don't want to tell your mammy that you both died on my watch!'

Nirl stumbled out of the Inn, shouting at the people in Ivarstead that knew him the most. The whores bid him a sour farewell, and he cursed them back.

Moraine Castor, too, had no family here. She hailed from Solitude, sent here by her mother and father, the right honourable Lord and Lady Castor, to learn, in their words, 'serious moral values'. She had been caught winching a boy behind a tavern one evening during last year's harvest festival, and was reprimanded as though she had slaughtered the King. Her first kiss had ultimately been her last, and she was packed off to the south to work for a year. That was eight months ago; eight sordid months of labouring on a farmstead for other Lords. The Strek's were nice enough, their sons were sleek and attractive as well as charming, and the other field hand, who had been there only one month and had turned up in the dead of night randomly as a vagrant does, laughed and joked the best with her. He was her favourite, and indeed the one who looked the saddest to see her go. The child was only fifteen, she assumed, and she would be back soon enough. She just wanted to leave for a while, to prove she wasn't trapped.

'You never, _ever_, tell your Lord mother and father you went on this expedition, am I clear?' was Mrs Temba's only instruction.

'Yes ma'am.' she nodded enthusiastically, promising.

'We'd never be able to explain it...Even my trader's tongue wouldn't get us out of this.' Lygor Strek, the trader who had seen the seas and provinces many times over in his travels, joked. 'Please, make it back, we do consider you on of our own.'

Moraine had always liked Lygor; he was a kind-hearted man, thick with humour and strong in the farm. A keen swordsman too, it was rumoured, from his caravan trading days. Pirates were said to fear him and any ship he sailed on.

'Goodbye, Moraine..' the fieldhand mumbled solemly. Bluegarden was his name, it's what he called himself the first time he was asked, and it had been ever since. For a vagrant he was well spoken, learnt it off the high-ups of the places he had walked, he had told her. It was either work in a holdfast like Ivarstead, slave away in one of the mines, or join the Thieves Guild. The first one sounded far more idyllic, if not harder physical work. He was a good lad though, pretty too. Moraine would miss him the most.

Barknar sat on the open grass and meditated. A traveller, his only family were the Grey Beards of the Throat, who were probably not aware of his presence. Armed with a bow and a dagger, he prepared himself for a slaughter.

The cold courtesy of Sar Elkwihn sent his housecarl away without so much as a good luck. She returned the favour, taking his supplies as well as hers. It was unlikely he'd notice until they were in Whiterun, and he would be too far away to complain, for fear of ridicule. The Highguard were also heading on, through the remaining holds and eventually back to Solitude. If they could muster any more recruits then they would be dragged behind them. The Highguard rode hard and fast, breaking pace very little and rarer so stopping. There was no rest.

As all was done, the two parties rode their separate ways; Slaic's band going east to Nilheim, Sar Elkwihn's heading west due south to Falkreath. As he kissed his family goodbye, promising to return, Slaic knew that the hunt he had left for dead in his past had caught up with him. Riding out at the head of the group with Sar Roe, he knew not what waited for them come Nilheim. In two or so hours, he would find out. They would all find out. 

Ivarstead faded away behind them, slowly, into the early afternoon.


	7. The Embassy Contemplates

Elenwen hated the cold. She was a High Elf, First Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion, native of the paradise isle of Summerset. This weather was foreign to her, and she despised it. Whatever the Dominion saw in this frozen wasteland was beyond her; it was a shipwreck of Imperial nonsense and Nordic bullshit. They all followed that damned god Talos, the heathen that they had sought to destroy. Within the religion was the belief of the Imperials, and crushing that would deepen the gulf of morale in the Empire even further. It was illegal to worship him, this the natives of this frozen wasteland knew, but still these inbred oafs insisted on defying the law of the realm.

Pausing her train of thought, she sighed. She had forgotten herself; the sensibilities of the Aldmeri had escaped her, to instead by clouded by the red mist of frustration. She was better than that, better than all those who lived here. Certainly better than that damned bitch of a Queen that claimed the dominion. The 'High Queen' they called her, Elsif 'the Fair'. There was nothing in her nature that could even begin to deem her such. There was no royalty in her blood; she married into the Haafingar dynasty, and her beliefs in the Empire as a seat of power in this realm are in no way a 'fair' view. He leanings were noted, as were many of the aristocracy of Skyrim. From this embassy, Elenwen could pull from any of her eyes, ears and mouths; keeping her in tune with the secrets of the realm. This was necessary; how else would the Dominion be able to exert its authority. Every native and their dire farm animals were against them, it would be impossible to stay alive if they did not place themselves into the pathetic lives of the Nords that mostly populated the land. Without spies, the more barbaric of the locals could just rise up and ransack this great embassy. By the blood was it known that they could.

It was heresy to admit it, even in private contemplation, but Elenwen knew the Dominion had very little sway here. There was no army to protect them; no golden knights of the Eshtam, the High Dawn, were here to march gloriously into the cities and towns and proclaim Aldmeri law. The paltry number of men and woman that were provided to defend them were confined to this embassy. They simply did not have the bodies to spare. Not, however, that it would have made much difference. The High Elves were being persecuted or judged across the land as being members of the Dominion; even when they were no part of it. Hammerfell had been an example of this; an underestimating of the abhorrence of the lesser people. It would be suicide to simply send Altmer into any of the holds, and the Supreme Council knew this.

Besides that, there was the lack of cooperation of the High Queen. She was simply a puppet of General Tullius, Elenwen knew this to be fact. Movements of the Haafingar guards to Imperial camps suggested that she was reinforcing the 'defence of the realm'. Tullius could ask for the entire Highguard, those sworn to protect the royalty, and she would bend to him. Surely she could see that the reason they needed so many soldiers was because they were being slaughtered by Ulfric Stormcloak's mob of rebels. Elenwen didn't like him either; he was a rebel with only personal glory at the heart of his cause. He was the rightful High King, by the archaic laws of these barbarians, so it caused her strife to choose who would be better suited as the leader. Not that it mattered. The Dominion would be in control regardless; Queen Elsif's only son was murdered by a Stormcloak spy a month past, and would, through her lame disposition, would never remarry. The Empire could only hold on for so long before they realise here is a lost cause, or Stormcloak's men will raid Solitude and 'reclaim Skyrim.' She hypothesised that Ulfric Stormcloak was more open to negotiations, if it meant the crown for himself. This may be a line of enquiry that she would follow.

Her contemplation was cut short by the knocking of the door of her office. Snapping back to reality, Elenwen cursed in Aldmeri; she had not expected any visitors this morning, not until noon would the emissaries convene to discuss the trials and tribulations of invading a realm.

'Come in.' she said curtly, straightening herself to feign alertness and importance.

The door of her office opened, and the figure of an ape darkened her doorway. Standing on two legs to perfection, the Imga officer strode through her office to the vast desk she was sitting at, tattered and bashed helm under his left arm. He wore thick, cast iron shoulder guards; scratched yet respectable, as if they were polished regularly, but the black, hairy, barrelled, sprawling chest of the Imga people was broadly on show. A long cape draped his back, black with the sigil of the Imga people; the face of an ape, in deep purple. Chainmail trousers over cloth pants were damaged and cut, the dense, black hair poking through the chinks, as it was covering his entire body. Around his waist, a greatbelt of leather secured a sheath at his side, the hilt of a sword facing proudly outwards, his free hand holding it lightly. With purpose, the Great Ape reached the desk and greeted the emissary with the iron helm slamming into the desk with strength.

'Lord Kartus' the elf gasped, 'what is the meaning of this behaviour?'

'Do not sound surprised, Elenwen.' the Imga replied, his deep voice wrapping well around the plain tongue. 'You know why I am filled with such rage.'

'Is the simple task of routing out goblins too great for your people, Kartus?' she mocked. Thought to be extinct for hundreds of years, Tamriel had been besieged by an increase of the uncivilised wretches. Where they came from, no one knew; it would be sensible to suggest that they never indeed went extinct at all, and instead hid after the conclusion of the Oblivion Crisis of the Third Age. No one, scout or scholar, bandit or soldier, had seen hide nor hair of them, but they were notorious for their hiding. The mountains and caves that were aplenty all over the continent were deep enough to dissuade even the hardiest of explorers, and they were fertile enough to breed like rabbits in their spare time. Indeed, this was not just confined to Skyrim. Valenwood, Cyrodiil, even the Summerset Isles were reporting goblin camps, organised in a hierarchical structure and smithing, crafting, and even speaking in the common tongue as well as their own. Every province of the continent was awash with them, and no one could understand why.

'How dare you mock my kin?!' Kartus shot back, ramming his other fist into the table in a fit of anger. 'We are outnumbered ten to one, and you give us equipment that breaks in the midst of battle. How do you expect us to defend this embassy if you are using us as cannon fodder?'

'The Imga people are in our debt, Ape.' Elenwen reminded him, as though she had said it a thousand times before. She had, they did need constant reminding of their place. Generations ago, they looked up to the Altmer as their superiors; again rightly so. The Dominion used them as soldiers and workers, for they were ever so loyal. As of late, this dedication had waned slightly; a sense of grandeur seemed to have taken hold of them. They were no more than what Kartus had said, cannon fodder to soften up adversaries for the true soldiers. 'Remember your place. We command you.'

'The Imga people _work_ for you, elf.' the Great Apes felt as such. They had worked their way out of subservience many decades ago. The Aldmeri Dominion controlled Valenwood, and therefore controlled the land the Imga people came from. It was out of service to _their _realm that they fought for the High Elves. 'And your workers need to be armed for battle, not for that of a bandit. Are you leading the Dominion to glory or to death in these lands?'

'Hold your tongue, beast!' now Elenwen was consumed with rage. She was not being chastised by a glorified monkey about her leadership abilities. Rising to her feat, Elenwen was smaller by some inches compared to the Imga officer. The Elf stood at about six foot, where as Kartus, a strong, proud and large Great Ape, stood at six feet five inches when standing. This deterred her ego in no way, as it was the only aspect that dwarfed his. 'I am not debating with you orders. You serve, or _work_, whatever you wish to call it, for the Dominion. You will use what is provided, carry out what is ordered, and accept what is given as a reward, nothing more. Am I clear? Am I?!'

Never wavering from the inflamed gaze of the High Elf, Kartus said nothing for several seconds. Slowly, he nodded, bowed, and turned to leave; striding to the door that was still open from his arrival. The entire embassy would have heard her words, the elf realised, but it mattered not. The damage, if any considering not many here cared for the Imga much themselves, had been done.

'I must warn you' The Ape added, as he was just about to leave, pausing at the door frame, 'That my scouts in the Morthal and Dawnstar have reported sightings of the Highguard, led by their Principal Knight Sar Elkwihn Lupin no less, have been rallying for able men and woman to fight for the Crown. It appears, from what my scouts tell me, that they foresee a threat that may break the boundaries of the Stormcloaks and the Empire.'

One benefit of the Imga people's service was that they made excellent spies. While they were closely related, the Great Ape people looked incredibly similar to trolls. Of course, any one who was close to them could tell otherwise, they had no third eye and far less protruding bones, but they made great plants for surveying the open lands. No one in their right mind would go near a troll, and so were kept unaware that they were in fact Imga. It was easy enough to infiltrate the beasts' dens, the trolls were respectful to the power of Kartus's people and allowed them free passage through their territory. Even the rare albino Imga people were put to use, their white hair, as opposed to black, was used to scout the snow caped lands. It was a lucrative set up; one that Kartus oversaw personally. He took care of his scouts well, and the trolls that both guarded and hid them. Simple creatures, they were amazed that an Ape could wield a sword, so it took very little to please them.

'Who is this 'threat'?' the High Elf asked tentatively, calmed and now hesitant.

'The Aldmeri Dominion.'

With that, he made his leave; Elenwen now all alone in her office to contemplate what had just been dropped on her.

'I must speak to the crown at once.' She thought, calling on one of her servants to send a letter to Windhelm at once. 


	8. The Great Apes

Kartus left the damning words hanging in the air as he departed from the Emissary's office, his rage no more quelled than it had been despite catching the elf off guard. It had came to a surprise to her, despite every indication pointing towards it, that the High Queen was conspiring against the Dominion. Using the Highguard was a risky move, by Kartus' opinion, for they were the most recognisable soldiers in the realm. Their presence would bring fear, confusion, and ultimately questions. He could see that they were chosen to recruit due to their stature, and no doubt a lack of trust by Elsif towards her court and people. This was an amateur move, by a leader wrought with grief and thirsting for revenge. Her husband, the High King, killed in a duel for the throne by Ulfric Stormcloak, and her only son, and her only heir, assassinated; she was left clinging to a throne that would soon not be hers. The Imga officer knew what this revelation would provoke the Aldmeri to do; denounce Elsif the Fair as the High Queen and install Ulfric Stormcloak as the monarch.

The question was, did the Dominion have the authority? Legally, yes, they could support whoever they wish; even to the extent of accusing the Queen of worshipping Talos and having her sentenced. Yet, it was not so simple practically. The Thalmor had at the most two hundred able soldiers spare, between the embassy and Northwatch, as well as three hundred of Kartus' Imga warriors. Skilled or not, this was a dire amount for an invasion, and would be no offering to Stormcloak as support. He would want an army as large as the Sea of Ghosts, and a poor offering of elves and apes would not satisfy him.

No, that was never Elenwen's game; she would never risk any number of those that were keeping her safe, simply to ensure the Nords she saw as 'inferior' had a crown that supported her. Or were not directly against her. She would hope that Ulfric would blame the Empire for the sanctions of religion, not the Aldmeri Dominion. Even still, she could barter, and would if she didn't want to have her head on a spike. Freedom to worship Talos was a far better deal to cut than both the realm of Skyrim _and _the Empire banding together to slaughter the High Elves of the Aldmeri.

Marching through the corridors of the building, the Imga could feel the eyes of his elven masters upon him. These grand halls were not built for apes, just as they were not built for bastards, vampires, those of the wereblood, or any other race that wasn't the Altmer. Each Thalmor steward, guard, knight or titled individual looked down upon him, more accurately up at him in disdain, but it meant very little to the Great Ape. He commanded those of his kind, and had dealt with the elves all of his life. They bothered him naught, for he could cut each and every one of them down in an instant. There was no keener swordsman in the embassy than Kartus, son of Ku'uthak, Lord of the Gold Coast Forest. Whether he was far from his home, and distant by many leagues of temperature, he carried the sigil of the Imga forward into battle. The enemy would meet his blade, and know of the power Kartus held. No Gods, no masters.

Now in the snowy courtyard, after wandering the decorated maze of an embassy so quell his rage for a time, Kartus was approached by two elven orderlies, flanked by half a dozen golden armoured Thalmor.

'Sar Kartus' one, a slimy fellow who the Imga knew as Loraio, the Emissary's right hand and keenest kisser of her rear end, addressed him as a master would a dog. The elves refused to name him 'Lord', for their superiority complex forbade them. The 'Sar' malarkey was merely to seem courteous in fear of a beating. 'Lady Elenwen requests you take your men and continue with your culling of the goblins to the west.'

The absurdity was not lost on on Kartus' face. The Imga had only just returned some hours ago from an excursion, where they had lost ten of their men and had many more injured. How could that blasted wench expect them to go back into the fray only moments after returning?

'What do you mean, now? We have only just returned...'

'It is what the Emissary requests, Imga.' the other orderly, who was known as Elenwen's muscle; Ducanor, grunted. Built strongly, and sizing up to Kartus' height, he was no player of games. Every word he spoke, as they were seldom, was honest and brutal.

'Regardless, these are my men.' he motioned to his kin, who had started to gather around the scene. Some were beaten up as Kartus was, others not as much. All were curious as to how this would end; their commander's word would determine their blood lust. 'We are weary, and ill-prepared. Unless Elenwen is willing to arm us properly, there is no warrant in proceeding with an attack.'

'Provisions have been gathered for a week's excursion.' Loraio continued, ignoring what the Imga said. 'You will be rearmed and deploy with in the half hour. Please see to it that this is the case; the Lady wants any surrounding threats from goblins, snow trolls, or whatever else eliminated before we host another gathering of distinguished guests.'

'Who do you mean by that?' the Ape inquired.

'That is of the Lady's business, Imga. Do not intrude in official matters.'

This seemed to stir the gathered kin of Kartus. Their leader was being disrespected in front of them, and it was beginning to become unbearable. The murmuring turned into chattering, then angry hoots and growl, protests in both the common tongue and in their native language.

The Imga officer held up his hand to the mob behind him, flat and vertical, and they instantly went silent. A foreboding sense of quiet blanketed the courtyard like thick white layers of snow.

'We will arm up and leave immediately, and I can assure you that we shall be gone with haste.' He turned to his soldiers, close to three hundred Great Apes dressed similarly to Kartus himself, with varying degrees of armour and clothing. All had chainmail leggings guarding cloth pantaloons, but any armour they had been spared was leather; not even of the tanned variety. 'Arm yourselves brethren! Two hundred and fifty of you shall accompany me; with the remaining number staying to guard the women and children. We shall leave west, be sure you are ready to depart. Remember cloaks, swords, personal belongings of faith, and your courage!'

A chant of _oorah_ deafened the courtyard from the Imga, who instantly set about their preparations. Soon enough, many of Kartus' brothers put themselves forward for protecting the wives and mothers, the children, the sick and the injured. As slaves to the High Elves for many a century, through the own thirst for emulation by their forefathers and mothers, every Great Ape was wary of leaving their loves in the clutches of the Thalmor. Kartus knew he was taking ten times more men that he ever had before out on a simple 'culling', as Loraio understated. He would usually command bands of twenty five Imga, on horse back, in excursions in the surrounding land; moving from the embassy to Northwatch, and sometimes due south to the outskirts of Dragon Bridge. He seldom led his men north; the sea line was polluted with bandits and shipwrecks which his men found to be ill omens. It was never out of cowardice, he hastened to add. He and his men had killed many a raider; but the upturned bodies and rotting masts were unnerving.

'One hundred horses shall be needed, kin!' Kartus continued to command his men. 'And thick winter cowls to shield us from this ungodly frost.'

'You cannot have any more horses than you are usually allotted, Sar Kartus.' Loraio remarked, voice never wavering from his official tone. 'Furthermore, the warm clothing is reserved for the Thalmor only. You have been given your capes, and your skin is...covered enough to suffice.'

'Oh but my elven friend, the Lady would not want her soldiers to go unprepared.' sarcastic in tone, the Imga continued; 'Please my kin, ensure you have steel weapons, boots and shoulder guards. Iron will not do, and the base shall have enough to suffice I assume!'

'Sar Kartus...'

'Do not defy me, steward.' The Imga gritted. 'If you want success, we shall take what we need.'

'What do you think you are trying, ape?' Ducanor stood forward, squaring him up. They were equal in height, and face to face the pride duelled in between the little gap that separated them.

'There is no need for any violence!' the weaker steward protested, yet the half dozen Thalmor had already readied their golden tipped spears in preparation for some form of conflict.

'We shall be on our way then.' Kartus grinned slyly, knowing there would be no blood shed here. There were dignitaries coming after all.

Bitterly, Ducanor backed off. Clearly he was not all brawn, or at least had a lick of brain in that dense golden skinned head of his. Any provocation would entice an entire army of Imga to besiege this godforsaken elitist sanctuary. Their magically-infused blood would stream over the polished oak, stain the purity of the snow with their remains.

But Lord Kartus was forgetting himself, forgetting his honour. He had preparations to be dealing with, not the follies of pretentious elves. He left the stewards and their lapdog soldiers as they were, and went to sharpen his sword, to forget about the poison that was politics.

As every warrior should, he thought.


	9. Travelling

The noon sun was just upon them as they headed due east to Nilheim, in a pack formation with enough spacing between them to be both suitable for conversation and to separate any falling horses from the surviving mounts in the event of a bandit attack. Their horses weren't armoured, save for Sar Roe's that was protected by gilded steel plates of sheer beauty, intricate Nord patterns carved by Beirand of Solitude. Vyella was not privy to this honour as the Highguard were, but then again she was not one of them. They were elitist in that respect; knowing they were the most superior of all soldiers in Skyrim went to many a head. It was said that many of the battles that the Highguard fought were won by fear alone, as if their presence could sway the fears of drunk, vicious bandits and raiders. Exaggeration was at work here, Vyella could confirm. The Highguard rarely left the Blue Palace, let alone crusading through the realm fighting wars. That was a ranger's duty; Highguard had only time for patrolling and assuring, but never fully promising to themselves, constant safety to our Ladyship.

Travelling west went quicker than Slaic had foreseen. He had expected a long, tedious journey filled with awkward silences, or the sound of Nirl attempting to bed any women he could. The latter was still true; Moraine politely declined, Vyella threatened his manhood.

'If you ask me that again, guard, I will cut off anything you were thinking of sticking in me.' she said bluntly, trotting onwards to ride with Slaic and Sar Roe; leaving Nirl smiling like an embarrassed idiot, muttering curse words behind his vile, false grin. Judd and the Bryligh twins roared

It must be admitted, Slaic had never really warmed to the noblemen and knights. He had fought along side them numerous times; against wildlings and rebels. He even had the pleasure of fighting many a time with Ulfric Stormcloak; the killer of the High King. He was an ambitious man, to be sure; Ulfric was driven by Nordic passion and pride. Everything he did was for the good of the Nords; be it killing spies or murdering rebels. His greatest charge would have been quashing the Forsworn rebellion; but that was marred by his recent actions. Slaic himself was torn on who's claim was more solid; by Nordic law Ulfric was the High King after defeating Torygg in a duel, however his use of the _thu'um_ was never factored in. Truths of the Gods be right, any heir of Lady Elsif would be the rightful heir, yet their son Sovnygg was murdered just a month after his father. By blood, Elsif had no claim other than her wedding vows to the Haafingar. For all intensive purposes the line of Ysgramor was dead. That was still a fact that had to sink in with him.

By the Nine, _anyone_ could lay claim to the throne. There was talk of a bastard son of Torygg who was raising an army in the west; holed up in the Understone Keep near Markarth. This so called 'Bastard King' was claiming rights to the Haafingar name, and amassing an army of loyal followers, as Ulfric was with his namesake rebellion, to storm Solitude and claim the throne for himself. Too had there been the tale told around the guards of the resurgence of goblin-kind across Tamriel. Some called this a prophecy of doom; but this was usually from farmers and low ranking lords, former knights or men of officialdom. They worried for their plots, and would assume the worst. True though, it was to be said, that there had been attacks on Ivarstead by the goblin-kind. Slaic personally had killed them, so was confirmed to this belief. He did not know why this was, but only realised them to be a threat. The likelihood of them taking over the realm was unlikely, but it did not help to be prepared. He had commissioned Judd; being the largest and most intimidating of his soldiers, that was found to be feared by the cave-kind, to walk the borders of the town with a torch in an effort to ward them off. If anything, this made the townsfolk feel like they were not under as much of a threat in their own home. The building of walls had been mooted several times, deemed wholly unnecessary by the Jarl, so alas their job was harder.

'What action do we take once we reach the Riften mob?' Slaic asked aloud, more to himself, but Sar Roe was the only one close enough to actually hear him.

'Tell them to shut up and do as we say.' the knight answered, face drawn and uninterested.

'You don't think they will?' Slaic asked this, but knew too well that it was hard enough to command a set of guards who were paid in coin; glory was a fund pot that

'Everyone who has signed up for this, excluding ourselves and Sar Elkwihn's handmaiden, are here with illusions of grandeur.' He paused for a moment, then reconsidered. 'No, the giant lad; he has no care for glory.'

'True, but timidness is a damning enemy; none of them will command for themselves.' Slaic stated, believing such. 'There would be no sense in that. Besides, combat experience is hard to come by, those who have it are usually dead.'

'But idiots who seek glory will go against such theories to _think _they are attaining it.' Sar Roe was correct in this, and Slaic mulled it over in a short silence before speaking again.

'The woman that Sar Elkwihn claimed was their leader; what was she like?'

'_His grace_' the knight said with bitter hints of sarcasm that shocked the Captain slightly at their presence in his conversation 'was scathing of her abilities. In truth she seemed fit and able, only that the Principal Knight has a familial mistrust of women on the battlefield. Goes back generations, a deep seated, queer sort of feeling that no one really understands. He refuses women in the Highguard, despite the one person we are now sworn to protect being the sex themselves. You've seen how he treats Vyella; I can't blame her for wanting to accompany us.'

'You make it sound as though your company is better, Roelland.'

The housecarl trotted up behind them, having left Nirl in her wake. She was a fine woman; shoulder high, sleek black hair to compliment the black velvet she wore. Her eyes were a vibrant blue, which stood out from her pale-ish skin. Well held, her riding was incredibly deft; she rivalled the knight in skill, not sagging as she moved. Even Slaic, who had ridden for years, albeit far faster and under far more hazardous conditions, could only marvel at her control.

'Do we not refer to knights by titles any more?' Sar Roelland quipped, grinning. '_Sar_ Roelland to you, woman.'

'You should treat your carer with respect.' she retorted slyly, child-like malice in her voice, passing the two men to lead the convoy.

'Oh of course, forgive me my lady.'

'So I'm a lady now?'

'Please.' the Captain winced, intervening in their exchange. 'I do not know how it works in the Highguard, but in the Snow we saved such words for the bedroom.'

'You truly are a ranger, Slaic Hemjir.' Vyella flicked back her head to let her hair, short as it was in comparison to the ladies of the time, flow back slightly.

'What do you mean by that?'

'You are deathly awkward by trade.' she turned her head to wink at him. How casual this was, talking between strangers. These two were friends, or lovers, or both? It was horribly unprofessional to be so lackadaisical, but in a way Slaic enjoyed it. The banter was rare now that he had settled; his guards treating him as though he was above camp fire stories. He wasn't, and loved the high tales of the realm. That culture; the culture of the Nords, was strong in his blood. It reminded him of his days in the Snow.

'I have fathered four children!' he exclaimed, mock-offended. 'I assure you there is no timidness in this Nord's bones.'

'The woman has spoken, Captain.' Sar Roe laughed, as did they all. Time had passed in exhales of jovial exchanges, serious talk and observations.

Barknar rode along on his own, whistling softly to himself, and noting every plants or animal they saw. He was unique in this way, and if anything related to Trygian and Moraine more than anyone else. They spent most of the journey together, mumbling awkwardly to each other. Typical teenage dribble, the hints of flirting too oblique for even the most romantic of bards to be able to sing about. When Barknar did indeed interact with others, it was to them. He pointed out things of interest, certain plants and their properties; some of which they knew from their lives in work, or, in Trygian's case, books.

As two past noon came, the signs of a camp came into view. Tents had been erected, and the dots of people were visible as the banked down a short sloped valley. It was now up to Slaic and Sar Roe to attempt to bring these two together, and keep the greed for glory sedated until it was needed. The Nine help them.


	10. Gilded Knight

The rage only subsided once she was certain that damned Imga and his motley dregs had departed from the embassy. The bastard had taken most of their horses, half of their supplied steel that had been gifted by the Empire as a show of good faith, and more over asserted far more control than his dirty blood was worth. The guards would be disciplined later for this; they went idly by while the apes plundered what they wanted, and just let them go. That alone was insubordination, but quite frankly Elenwen could not spare the men to kill off most of her soldiers. After all, they were her protectorate, and too few in number for her liking. The Supreme Council had only garrisoned some two hundred soldiers in her charge; and some of those had to be sent to Northwatch to claim it for the Aldmeri Dominion. From the beginning, she had been thin on the ground, which was made worse with the obscene amount of parties she was compelled, by the Council no less, to throw for the various Skyrim dignitaries, to which did not hold any form of dignity at all. They were all drunk, overweight oafs who ate and drank and whored in excess. Elenwen had already lost two of her servant girls, one Imperial and one Altmer, to pregnancy. It would be unfortunate for their bastard children to learn that their lord fathers would either be dead, at the Dominion or civil warrior's hand, or docile.

Scarcely would she admit it, but Elenwen knew their entire effort was a glorified espionage mission. As much as an embassy and a prison was provided to make it seem as though they had a presence in the north, it was all a front. Likewise, as much as it pained her, she knew they Imga were needed. The elves were too few to keep these holdings themselves; and slavery was tepid in Skyrim, so the supply and demand would be far too uneven. The damned apes were competent guards, and ferocious hunters. Kartus had underplayed their ability to garner effect in her presence, but Elenwen knew they slaughtered Goblins for fun. The 'ten to one' advantage was negligible when the beasts were culling them at a rate of one hundred to one.

All of this played on her mind, at a constantly fast pace and always on the forefront. To compound this, she also had the revelation by the ape about the High Queen's guard attempting to garner forces against the Aldmeri Dominion. _To Oblivion with them, scum _she thought. If the northern holds were giving men and women to fight, what would the south feel? Laila Law-Giver, Jarl of the Rift, was a known supporter of Ulfric, and would even possibly give her own guard to see the Dominion was quashed, albeit they would have a hard time convincing the woman to send her soldiers off with those supporting the Empire. Eastmarch, conversely, would be avoided at all costs by the Highguard. If they had any wits in their dense bones, they would be well aware it would be akin to committing suicide. With Sar Elkwihn as well, the Principal Knight; his head would command a hefty price.

That of the Pale and Winterhold, also, would be hard to sway. Common enemies as the Dominion were, it would never be enough to sway loyal supporters of Ulfric If anything, it would serve as a test of faith; separating the wheat from the chaff as it was. Elenwen herself would be spoken of, but only to the Stormcloaks. She had overseen, and carried out, torture to their proclaimed High King many years past; such was the burning hatred Ulfric had for the Dominion. She refused to take responsibility for this; it was her orders, and she would even go so far as to say she _respected _Ulfric for his battle prowess. The lords and ladies of the Aldmeri Dominion congratulated her, but Elenwen knew it had caused more trouble than it was worth.

How long before Whiterun, or Falkreath, even the Reach or Hjaalmarch, were visited? No, this could not happen. Too much was at stake for her to leave this problem alone.

For the second time that day, her thoughts were suddenly interrupted mid-topic. A second knock at the door, a far more polite series of taps than her previous guest. Elenwen, knowing who it would be, beckoned Loraio and Ducanor in her office.

'Good morning once again, my lady.' the polite elf greeted her, bowing with deft. He was a subservient thing, Elenwen mused, with only the cause to serve whoever he was charged to. She knew him to be far more intelligent than he let on, however, and was said to remember everything he has been ordered, done, or seen.

'M'lady.' the tall, brutish one grunted, nodding his head once. Ducanor was a coarse fellow, elven but well accustomed to the Nord's sense of brutality. He respected Elenwen, and even respected the Dominion's cause; but his uphold of their beliefs was clouded.

'Has the ape been seen too?' she already knew the answer, word travels fast for her. The moment the Imga warriors had left the embassy, a handmaid had come running to tell her the news.

'Sar Kartus has left the embassy with two hundred and fifty of his soldiers; leaving fifty or so here to guard the women and children.' Loraio explained. 'A large majority of our steel forge gifts were taken, as well as a substantial amount of horses and food.'

'And you just stood there and let this happen?!' she shouted, trying to control her anger but failing. 'What about the men I gave you to ensure this went smoothly?'

'With all due respect, m'lady' Ducanor interjected, gruffly, moving forward as though to physically protect the smaller elf from the emissary's words. 'Six men would never be enough to cull Kartus, nor probably six hundred. He is a famed warrior, and besides his warriors ware fiercely loyal. At his command they could sack this embassy with no sweat broken.'

'He. Is. An. _APE!' _Rage had consumed Elenwen, her dominating voice booming against the walls of the sizeable study. 'You have bent to the whim of an animal, and let him take as he pleases! This is a disgrace!'

'My lady, all is not lost.' Loraio came out from his relative hiding. 'We have seen to it that your _other _instructions were carried out.'

This caught the emissary's ears, and she instantly quietened her voice; tone in between anger and curiosity. 'Go on...'

'The golden soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion are creeping ever so slowly from their posts to the Imga hovel.' Loraio spoke, a slight grin being allowed on his face. He was referring to the stone hut in the west-most part of the embassy; a shanty that led to the Imga's sleeping quarters underground. It was modest, and accommodated the five hundred or so Great Apes that had emigrated from Valenwood to Skyrim with the Dominion. They were relative slaves, and this underground tunnel system was supposed to keep them out of sight of the guests; but this seldom was the case. As to not entice a rebellion, there being more of themselves than there were High Elves, they were free to roam as long as no trouble was caused. 'Give them the word, my lady, and they shall strike at every Ape they see. It shall send a message to Sar Kartus, and keep him in line in future.'

'Oh baby sister, do you really feel this to be the wisest course of action?'

As if there were not enough visitors in her study for one day; a third person now entered her chambers, swaggering in as though he held Lordship of the embassy. This, actually, was not far off. Sar Elwar, Gilded Knight of the Aldmeri, was the dearest sibling to the emissary, and champion of the High Elves. It was as if swordcraft flew through his veins; a gifted knight from a young age. Some needed years of training to be deemed half as skilful as Sar Elwar, but it was believed, especially by the Altmer, that Sar Elwar could have trained none and killed many. As it was, he did train, every day no less. This made him eerily deft; quick, strong and merciless in battle.

'Sweet brother, you disagree with the Lady emissary?'

Sar Elwar sauntered in, golden armour of the elves gleaming in the torchlight. It was especially bright when the natural light; what little actually penetrated the deep, thick clouds above that kept the north in a permanent dull light, met it. He had an almost heavenly warm glow to him.

'I do indeed.' he came and rested his hands on her long desk; the two serving elves moved out of the way so as to not offend him with their presence. 'You may leave us.' He spoke, facing the opposite direction but speaking to Loraio and Ducanor. They both bowed, yes even the ferocious elf tried his hand at a sloppy one, and left with the closing of her office door that seemed to open for anyone who wanted to complain these days.

'The apes are but a liability to the Dominion, brother. They are becoming dissident under Kartus, for he seems to think of himself as our equal. That kind of thinking would have him murdered on the Isles. Why should we give him that luxury here?'

'Because, sweet sister' Sar Elwar chimed, now leaping up onto the desk and sitting on it in such a disrespecting manner to his sister that it made her twinge with anger. 'You are well aware that the Imga people are capable warriors. What do you expect to happen once they return in a week? For them to merely crawl on all fours to you, begging for forgiveness and pledging their full support to you? You are smarter than that, sister. They will most likely become enraged, and slaughter every elf in the embassy. You would look just dainty as a head on a spike.'

'Shut up!' the emissary bellowed, interrupting. 'How dare you insult me like this? I am your superior, and it is my word that is law in this embassy. You are a footsoldier, brother. Do not forget that.'

'Clearly a footsoldier with more sense than you. You expect the laws and customs of the Dominion to carry you through this. See sense, and forgo murder. If anything, you should possibly see about extending the Dominion's hand to Ulfric Stormcloak...'

'HA!' the female elf laughed, dry and insulting. 'Yes, let me just write to a former captive. I'm sure cake and ale would draw someone I tortured into near Oblivion to our embassy. Now it is _you _who is not seeing sense.'

'Not from _you_, sister. I am not dense; not many people want to make your acquaintance in normal circumstances. I doubt King Ulfric would answer your summons. However, he may be more open to speaking with a warrior akin to his own tastes.'

'Are you inferring that _you_ speak to Ulfric Stormcloak, with the pretence of negotiating his ascendancy to the throne?' she laughed coarsely, then spat; something she was unaccustomed to doing. It made her feel dirty, and common. 'Why by the Dominion should I consent to this?'

'Do you see any other way to confront this problem? The High Queen, and the Empire no doubt by the design of recruitment, are asking for your head. Five hundred men could take this embassy with correct planning, and the Empire can wash its hands free of blame by claiming it was the High Queen's sanctioning, and volunteers who clearlywere _rebels_ against the righteous Aldmeri Dominion. Killing the Imga will not further our safety, only deny it. Please, sister, I am asking you; see sense and send me to Windhelm. I shall reason with him, warrior to warrior, and see that we side with the correct side here...'

Joltry the Goblin


End file.
